Chronic Confusion

Since Cutie #2 was born with her designer genes, something inside me has been unsettled. I wanted to be able to tell our story, but I also didn’t want to confuse her story with my own. As a result, I’ve collected (in my own brain) many stories which I’d love to share with you…assuming my forty year-old brain lets me retrieve them at the right time.


How did that happen?

Somehow it did. And almost immediately my brain failed me. For years, my optometrist has told me, “Just wait. Your eyesight will be like this when you’re forty.” And he would proceed to change that confounded machine to the blurriest possible settings. Seriously? What a fun job! Mess with people and get paid for it.  Another career for my next life.

So clearly, it came as no surprise to me when my brain failed me. I couldn’t remember what I was doing. I couldn’t focus on work, advocacy, children, husband, house, work, did I mention work? My brain was failing me.

I didn’t hesitate; I immediately made an appointment with my Internist. He nodded, listened, ordered myriad tests for thyroid, hormone-imbalance, allergies, everything. I could see on his face the “look”.  You know, the one that says, “What does she expect? She’s forty.” To his credit, he didn’t utter the words. I even complained, “None of my pants fit! All of a sudden! It’s not fair. I just went shopping in Minnesota where there is no tax on clothes!!! It was less than a month ago.” Again the “look”.

I left my appointment and sat down in my car. I glanced at the checkout paperwork the doctor’s office printed.

Reason for visit: Chronic Confusion

At least it didn’t say, “She’s forty, what did she expect?” Insurance would never cover that condition.

It dawned on me a few mornings later that I might be entering the lovely and relaxing time of perimenopause. My monthly visitor was again late. Just in case, I thought I would do a home pregnancy test. I had two nearly-expired ones left from our procreation days. No problem.

First one – colossal failure. Not enough of a sample.

I took the last test with me, peed in a public restroom in a location which shall remain nameless and before I could zip up my too-tight pants, I was pregnant.





Excuse me? What was that?

Now I’m giving myself the “look”. However, this look includes “What have we gotten ourselves in to?” We have two fabulous kids: one who hates wearing jeans and one who rocks designer genes. Why not add one more to the mix?

Welcome to our Chronic Confusion.

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